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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25283503">Liability</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/milokno/pseuds/milokno'>milokno</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood, Gen, Knives, Oneshot, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:40:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25283503</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/milokno/pseuds/milokno</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One of his fingers twitch, and it’s only then that Jameson realizes that his fingers, coated with red, are wrapped around the handle of a knife. It’s as if, with how tightly he’s holding onto it, it’s burning through the skin of his hand, scalding so deep it’s sure to leave a scar. He’s holding onto the thing like it’s a lifeline. </p><p>Perhaps, now, it is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Liability</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was requested by Bupine on tumblr!! I really enjoyed writing it.</p><p>I'm on <a href="https://milo-kno.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.</p><p>Enjoy!!</p><p>- Miles</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jameson’s eyes fluttered open exactly six minutes and forty-two seconds ago.</p><p>He prayed to God, or to whoever would listen, that he would forget what had happened by the time his eyes opened. He’s not religious, hasn’t been for years, but this has just become a part of his routine. Every time he does this, breaks down and falls apart like this, he prays. As he began to lose consciousness, he begged for forgiveness— <em>for mercy, God, please give me mercy</em>— like his mother taught him to when he was young. It never seems to work.</p><p>The house he’s in is cold. The flames, which once roared and crackled in the fireplace, have since died out. He’s on the ground, the back of his head resting on dark, hardwood floors. Rays of light enter through the spaces between the closed curtains. Little, golden beams land on his chest, his neck, and the spot just beneath his left eye. There’s dust floating in the air, visible under the light. It’s coating the inside of his throat. He lets out a shaky breath, and he swears he can see the particles of dust fly out his parted lips.</p><p>One of his fingers twitch, and it’s only then that Jameson realizes that his fingers, coated with red, are wrapped around the handle of a knife. It’s as if, with how tightly he’s holding onto it, it’s burning through the skin of his hand, scalding so deep it’s sure to leave a scar. He’s holding onto the thing like it’s a lifeline.</p><p>Perhaps, now, it is.</p><p>He sits up, raises the hand holding the knife up to his face. He stares at it with wide eyes, before dropping it onto the floor in front of him. It hits the floor with a clatter, and he backs away from the knife until he hits the wall behind him. His hands won’t stop shaking. His eyes flicker down to his forearms, and then to his clothes. There are red splatters all over him, from his button-up shirt all the way down to his shoes.</p><p>In front of the windows, with beams of sunlight falling onto him, is a man. He is lying on the ground, just like Jameson had been a few moments before. The only difference between them is that Jameson is still breathing.</p><p>The memories of what happened the night before flood his mind. It leaves everything else in his brain, both the good and the bad, sopping wet with the filth. The memories flash behind his eyes like they are being shown to him on a projector.</p><p>He screws his eyes shut, presses his still trembling hands over his ears to silence the screams that he’d been forced to listen to for so long. He wasn’t the one that did this, he would never have done something like this, <em>please</em>—</p><p>“You disappoint me, Jameson.”</p><p>And just like that, the screaming is gone. There are still tears streaming down his cheeks, and his hands might not have stopped trembling, but now, at the very least, the screaming has stopped. The voice echoes in the room they’re in. It clogs up his ears until there’s nothing else to focus on but <em>him</em>.</p><p>Jameson’s eyes, for the second time today, slip open. Without moving his head at all, his gaze shifts to the side so he can glare directly at the figure across the room.</p><p>There, standing beside the door, is Anti. The memory of what’s behind the door is fuzzy, but he thinks it might’ve been a kitchen, or a bathroom. Whatever it was, it had tile floor.</p><p>“I always thought you’d be… <em>better</em> than this.” Anti’s lips contort into a wide grin around the word <em>better</em>, like it’s some sort of secret between the two of them. The moment the word spills out of his mouth, the smile falls.</p><p>Anti takes a couple steps forward, until he’s standing just above the man Jameson killed. Except, now that he thinks about it, he hadn’t been the one who killed him, had he? He can’t remember if he was the one that was holding the knife, or if he was simply the puppet Ant had used to do his dirty work.</p><p>Jameson remembers how the man’s eyes were so wide and afraid. He’s certain that, no matter how much time goes by, he’ll never forget them. He remembers how loud he screamed, and how his hands, coated with his own blood, pushed Jameson’s face away. He remembers the way the man had begged for his life, and he remembers how even the <em>thought</em> of stopping hadn’t once crossed his mind.</p><p>“This is the fifth man you’ve killed, Jameson.” Anti’s tone is calm, patronizing, when he speaks. Like it’s so obvious that Jameson was the one that killed him.</p><p>He wants to roar like the fire had last night. He wants to yell, or to scream until he’s blue in the face. He’s not crazy, and he wasn’t the one that stabbed the man across the room <em>again</em> and <em>again</em> and <em>again</em> and—</p><p>Jameson isn’t a murderer.</p><p>He didn’t do this.</p><p>Did he?</p><p>He blinks away the tears in his eyes. The knife, which he dropped onto the floor a few minutes before, is in the center of the room. Anti’s crouched down beside the body, rummaging through his suit pockets and rifling through the man’s wallet. If Jameson can get to the knife in time then maybe, if he’s lucky, he could be <em>free</em> again.</p><p>But he’s not a murderer.</p><p>Or is he?</p><p>Before he can convince himself not to, Jameson starts crawling towards the knife. He’s on his hands and knees, inching closer to it, and thus, towards Anti. The house is so loud, and yet it’s silent at the very same time.</p><p>He’s an arm’s length away from the knife. If he reaches out, he could grasp the handle. He could be free, again. It’s been so long since he was free.</p><p>His fingers are mere centimeters away from the knife. It’s still dirty and red and <em>used</em>. He’s too slow. Anti’s standing beside him. When had he stopped looking through the man’s pockets? When had he walked over to Jameson, and how hadn’t he realized sooner? A shoe crushes his hand. His bones shift beneath it, pressed into the hardwood floors. Jameson’s lips part in a scream, but there’s no sound.</p><p>Fingers grab his short, brown hair, and yank him upwards. The shoe is still pressing down his hand, and the pale skin of his throat is bared to the thick air of the room. Jameson shoves at Anti, the same way that the man across the room had done to him. His fingernails bite into the fabric of Anti’s shirt.</p><p>With the hand not tangled in his hair, Anti grabs the knife off the ground. He presses it up to Jameson’s throat, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to cause a gasped breath to escape his lips. It takes him longer than it should to realize that he’s praying again.</p><p>“You need to control your temper,” Anti’s voice is empty, tired. “You’re no use to me if you’re a liability.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments are always appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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